


american oracle

by handsliketruth, whiskeyjuniper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bunker Fic, M/M, Multi, Weirdness, canon divergent - season 11, there's something in the water
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2019-08-23 13:43:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16620122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handsliketruth/pseuds/handsliketruth, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyjuniper/pseuds/whiskeyjuniper
Summary: It’s like the bunker gathers secrets. It holds them close. It watches, and listens, and discerns. And when an earthquake ripples across the Kansas flatlands, it knows how to protect itself.It doesn’t lament the loss when something vital cracks deep in the heart of it.After all, it’s been waiting for this.





	1. seam

_The bunker sits, silent, still. It cannot predict earthquakes, but on this particular afternoon when a 5.6 ripples across the Kansas landscape, it at least knows how to lock down against them. The doors shut. The systems go on hold until the world’s gone still again, except for the rattle of books on the shelves. Inside, they wait for it to end, and when it finally does there’s very little damage. Save for two, very minor things._

__  
_The bunker knows how to protect itself._

 

….

 

When the shaking finally stops, Dean looks up from where he’s found himself under the table. The lights flick back on at half-power, flooding red light over Castiel’s features. The angel sits at the stool across from him, unmoving.

“Jesus, Cas. Nice survival instincts, there.”

Castiel looks down at him curiously.

“There are several tons of earth above us, Dean. Were the bunker to collapse, a table would only prolong your suffering.”

Dean pulls himself out from under the oak table with a shrug, dusting himself off- was that a cheeto? Gross.

“Eh, spent a few months in southern California as a kid. Drills every five minutes— who’d think they’d stick? Earthquake, under desk. Stop drop ’n roll, tornado, doorframe, ‘this is your brain on drugs’, all that junk…” He pushes a lamp back into the center of the table from where it’d nearly rattled off.

Castiel had slid off the stool, crouching by the bookshelf to pick up a fallen paperweight. There are books scattered across the floor, a broken beer bottle near the armchair. Something ceramic and old and probably important had spread dusty splinters near the stairs. If Sam weren’t on a run in town, he’d probably be upset— that, or spouting even more earthquake factoids in Dean’s ear, because that's really what he wants to hear at the moment.

Dean tilts his head up, frowning at the ceiling as he realizes that he doesn’t hear the whir of the airvents either. He stills.

“...That was natural, right?” 

It’d been quiet for what felt like weeks, ever since God and the Darkness just… left. No Lucifer, no hunts, no world-ending catastrophe, and Dean had been hovering somewhere between tentative calm and just about ready to slice ‘n’ dice the first thing that looked at him sideways.

“I sense nothing unusual.”

Dean relaxes partway; that was something, at least. “Earthquakes in friggin’ Kansas,” he grouses, “I’d say end times, if we hadn’t run that horse into the ground ten times over.” 

Castiel straightens, placing the bronze globe back into place on the shelf before he turns, considering the air. 

“...Do you smell that, Dean?”

“Smell what? Ah-- c’mon, don’t tell me something sprung a leak.”

“No. Not that. Something more... familiar.”

Dean scents the air, tries in vain to find anything other than the faint smell of old paper that never quite faded from the map room, and shrugs.

“I got nothin’, Cas.” Dean shakes his head, “Hey, I’m gonna take a look around, see if anything aside from the lights’ve gone hinky. I figure maybe a fuse blew somewhere. Hell, maybe they’re gamed to pop off in case of a quake- Men of Letters planned for just about everything else, so I mean, who knows. You coming?”

Castiel nods after a moment, trailing after.

“Good, ‘cause I hate opening up that damn fusebox.”

The door to the electrical room is— well, there isn’t one, not since Dean had gone at it with black eyes and a claw hammer. He’d taken the scraps that were left off the hinges afterward, painstakingly sweeping up every splinter, the same way meticulously hamfisted way he’s tried to clean up every other mess his fall had made.

It's always work to get the fusebox pried open. The metal is warped somewhere vital — again, him— and the hinges are perpetually jammed. Naturally, it opens like a flower under Castiel’s touch. 

Dean rolls his eyes, leaning past him to run his fingers over each switch, finding several popped. He makes a small, satisfied sound, flipping them and listening for the cool rush of air.

Nothing happens. He tries again, frowning at the general vicinity of the ceiling as the dull red lights blink vapidly at him.

“Isn’t that one for the lighting system?” Castiel points out over his shoulder, gravel against his ear, and Dean nearly swears, skin prickling from the bolt of his jaw to his gut.

“What, you’re an electrician now?”

“It’s labeled, Dean.”

Dean squints into the dimly lit box, and sure enough, there are neat little tape labels by several of the switches, even though they were all numbered (no doubt by some chart in some notebook filed in with a thousand other weird little manuals to this place). He recognizes Sam’s angular scrawl on the labels, marking off the need to know stuff. The ones he’d flipped had mostly been unlabeled, and small enough he hadn’t noticed them missing before-- so hopefully, nothing too catastrophic. Just to be safe, though, he takes care to set them all back to rights— enough went wrong basically all the time that at least this wasn’t going to be his fault.

The lights come back to life with a muted flicker, and he uses it to give the box another once-over before shoving the door shut with a creak. It still takes him jamming his shoulder against it to get it closed all the way, but the impact is almost satisfying.

Castiel had been waiting patiently as Dean tinkered, but his attention draws away. Dean straightens as the angel strides to the doorway.

“What’s up, Cas?”

“...That smell, again. It’s so familiar.”

Still, Castiel sounds curious more than anything, and Dean’s shoulders loosen. Following Castiel winds them deeper into the bunker, past bedrooms and halls and empty doorways. 

Their trail ends at the stairwell to the garage. 

“The hell…” Dean trails off.

Curls of pale smoke lick out from underneath the closed door in tenuous wisps. They dissipate in a stop-motion snarl of fog as Castiel opens the door calmly, and walks inside.

_“Cas— ”_  
Gray spills down the stairs, twisting and coiling around Castiel’s ankles. He leaves a gash in the thin haze as he strides in and Dean’s right on his heels, coming up behind Castiel to find the angel staring down at the long, jaggy crack in the cement floor.

It’s silent, and Dean grabs Castiel’s shoulder to pull him back. He’s already got the neck of his own shirt pulled up, pressed over his mouth and nose just in case, and his voice is muffled but still annoyed.

“Careful! Shit, is this— gas? That could be toxic, probably a leak, we’ve gotta get out-”

Castiel shakes his head, eyes flicking to Dean’s for a moment. It’s probably supposed to be reassuring.

“It’s only steam. Something… natural, I believe. Not chemical fumes.”

Dean eyes him, but tugs his shirt back down into place anyway. “Cas, if I’m sucking up asbestos right now, you’re the one fixing it,” he grumbles, raking his hands through his hair. “Steam… so you think there’s a leaking pipe or some kinda, I don’t know, groundwater or something under there?”

“It’s possible. The earthquake may have shaken something out of place.”

Dean nods slowly, considering the ragged seam. “And now, maybe it’s running up against something hot. A pipe, maybe. Could be what’s causing all this steam…”

It’s already starting to dwindle, a dull seep instead of a rush.

“Hell,” Dean mutters, bending over to look at the broken floor. “I don’t think we have anything to fix this, either.” He fishes his phone out of his back pocket, “Maybe Sam’s still in town, we could have him pick up—”

“Pick up what?”

Sam’s broad shoulders emerge from the stairwell, climbing up to frown at the crack and then, at them. Despite it, Dean can’t help the familiar frisson of relief at seeing him.

“Sam! Hey, you feel that shaker?”

“Hard to miss. I was at the Gas ‘n Sip, the cashier nearly had a heart attack.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, that’s what he said. So— I’m assuming that’s not a deadly gas leak, judging by how you’re both just standing there, breathing it all in.”

“Steam,” Castiel offers helpfully, and Dean seconds it with a flippant nod, the kind that says ‘sure, why not’ more than anything else.

Sam raises both brows, and Dean shrugs at him.

At some point in the last several minutes, the crack had stopped leaking entirely, silent and still. Now, it’s just a jagged split, barely big enough to jam your fingers in and shallow enough that if you did, your hand wouldn’t fit all the way-- especially if your hands were broad as Castiel’s, as he does just that.

“ _Hey-_ ”

“-That’s not hot?” Sam asks over Dean’s exasperation, brow furrowed.

“Warm.” Castiel stands, brushing his hand against his coat with a considering frown, “and somewhat damp.”

Dean opens his mouth, because if there’s not a joke there about ‘somewhat damp’ crevices, then who _is_ he, seriously, but another glance at Castiel’s hands and he fumbles the pass. He settles for giving him a look as Sam’s stupid mouth curves.

“...I’ll look up how to patch it,” Sam offers. “Just concrete, probably.”

“And in the meantime, if that’s the worst of it? Halle-freakin’-lujah. C’mon. Let’s make sure this place is all still in one piece.”

It doesn’t take long for the three of them to canvasse the rest of the bunker— and converge again in the kitchen with nothing new. It’s midafternoon by Dean’s internal clock, and his phone confirms it as much as the stifling warmth. It’s late summer in Lebanon, Kansas, and unseasonably warm, even underground and buffered by concrete and wards and who knew what else.

The realization that it actually _shouldn’t_ be that hot is what spurs their next campaign. They find the ventilation working well and good, but any sort of temperature control? Nonexistent.

And that’s how they end up spending two hours and some change painstakingly tracing what seems like miles of winding pipes and vents until they reached what seemed like it could just maybe be the source of the problem. This, however, leaves them staring up at a latticework vent in the kitchen twelve feet over their heads.

Sam’s the first to break the muggy silence.

“...So. What do we know about century-old air conditioning systems?”

“I’m gonna go ahead and guess ‘not enough’ for five hundred, Alex.” Dean sighs. “...I’ll grab a ladder.”

And somehow, despite Dean’s lack of enthusiasm (or practical knowledge of any ventilation systems that weren’t directly connected to the Impala), he finds himself the one up on top of the ancient, tottering ladder he found in the back of the storage room. 

Below, having been assigned to tool duty, Castiel lays out the contents of the rusty toolbox in neat rows by size.

Dean resettles his maglite between his teeth, studying the layout. A fine film of dust lies pristinely over everything, like it hasn’t been touched in ages. Made enough sense. Stifling a sneeze as he starts to dig into the mess, he tries not to think about the miles of empty air between his feet and the floor.

“This is way more friggin’ complicated than it’s got any right to be. Half of this… who knows. It’s like we’ve got everything under the sun up here…”

Dean catches sight of half a dozen sigils he sort of remembers, little patterns wending through a rat’s nest of colored lines, circuits and runes scribed into metal and old plastic-dipped wires. 

No wonder this place flew under the radar.

The real trick was picking out what was actually part of the air system. He just figured houses, bunkers, whatever- they were pretty much like cars, right? They’ve got bits to keep them going, cars have got bits to keep them going, it all works together. It’s just a puzzle, he tells himself pointedly as he uncovers yet another goddamn tangle of copper and plastic. But unlike most puzzles, there was way too much magic and mysticism tied up in all this shit to make heads or tails of. Give him a carburetor, a radiator- that, he could get it running in no time. This? It was bullshit. A bitch and a half all twisted up together— maybe if he wasn’t sweltering half to death he’d be seeing it clearer.

And he must voiced at least some of that out loud, because Sam was already agreeing from below.

“I mean, Dean, there’s a lot we just don’t know about this place.” 

Dean scowls at the dust smeared all the way up his elbows, like he can stare right through the flimsy ceiling tiles and light Sam on fire. Just a little. Just enough to singe off some of his dumb flippy hair.

“No, Sam, really. Is that the problem.”

There’s no response and Sam is out of eyeshot, so he can only assume Sam is making an equally dumb face at Cas. Wimp.

Dean swears again as he follows one, then another rune-scribed wire to dusty, dingy nowhere.

“This dinosaur-ass piece of shit… Cas, hand me the pliers.”

“Maybe you should try that green wire. Should it be hanging like that?”

“Green-- what, immortal being but you’re colorblind? It’s blue. Quit with the backseat driving, Cas.”

“You can’t drive from the backseat, Dean. And we’re not in a car."

Dean cranes back to glare down at him, jerking instead as the ladder wobbles and his pulse jumpstarts.

“Sam, you _better_ be holding this thing-”

“I have it.” He hears Castiel’s voice instead, the ladder steadying almost instantly, “Sam left to go look at the electrical panel again and see if he’s missed anything.”

“What?! How long’s he been gone?? If I _die_ —”

“I have you,” Castiel repeats. Dean’s boot treads find balance on the metal steps like he’s testing them.

“Sure. Sure, just— I’m gonna be pissed if a nine-foot drop is what kills me, alright? Hold it steady.”

“Yes, the great Dean Winchester, fallen by domestic accident while defunct angel watches. The headlines would disappoint many, I’m sure.”

First things first, Dean jams his hand down far enough into view to flip him off— but mostly he’s strangely comforted by Castiel’s dry tone. Something about it always helped put things in perspective. Even when that perspective was majorly annoying.

If it was starting to get overly warm before, wriggling around halfway inside a cramped crawlspace was just plain stifling. He’d discarded his buttondown ages before, tying it around his waist. The hair on his neck prickles with sweat, caked in fine dust. At least it looked like he might finally be getting somewhere. There’d been several false starts, rabbit trails before he found something broken— and if it was broken and he could touch it? Hell if he couldn’t fix it somehow.

Another twist, a wincing scrape of wrench on metal, and he feels more than heard something start to churn. Sullen air whispers against his side from the vent he was pressed up against, and he whoops, knocking the wrench against the ceiling tile. It was the work of moments to slide the panel closed before he’s scurrying down the ladder. He even jumps the last couple feet, now that the ground is solidly in sight. 

Hell if he couldn’t get his own goddamn house in order.

He holds the wrench out to Castiel with a grin, “Tim ‘the Toolman’ Taylor can kiss my handy ass-”

“-Kind of a deep cut there, don’t you think so, Dean?” Sam leans into the kitchen.

“Shut it, Al. You and ‘hidey-ho neighbor’ over here just keep on sitting on your thumbs and luxuriate in all the cool air, just make all the cracks you want— _I_ am taking a shower.” Dean announces, making a detour to the fridge to snag a cold one, “and this? Is coming with me.”

“You do shower beers now?” Sam raises a brow.

“I don’t see how that would improve the experience of either the beer or the shower.” Castiel remarks.

“Good points. Y’know what? I’m taking two.” Dean replies cheerily, tilting the bottles at them with a wink as he strides out of the room.

Afterward, cooled down even if the water was somehow was barely below body temperature, Dean returns to the kitchen relaxed. He drops the glass empties into the recycling bin Sam insisted they should try.

“You know, if tossing our beer bottles in a different trashcan is what saves the world, Sammy, either we aren’t working hard enough or we’ve been going about this entirely the wrong way.”

“With how many we go through, I really don’t know.” Sam replies dryly from where he was sitting across from Castiel at the kitchen table, several old manuals laid out in front of him.

Meanwhile, Castiel was already doing that forehead-wrinkling deep recall kind of look, and Dean shakes his head immediately to stave him off. 

“Cas, how about if you _don’t_ share exactly how many, I make us some sweet-ass victory burgers?”

“Domestic triumph always did suit you, huh?” Sam teases as Castiel perks. Dean's already rifling through the fridge, good mood undaunted.

“Go ahead, keep it up. All you’ll be getting is...” he peered in disgust at something from the back of the fridge, “...sentient lettuce? Jesus.”

Dinner's like any other night, despite the heaviness of the air. The stove radiates a more normal heat, and the burgers are flipping delicious, if Dean says so himself. To be fair, he’s had spent more trial and error time than he cared to count up figuring out what went into a burger that really made Cas’ mouth water. And, despite Sam’s grumbling about heart attacks and cholesterol, his brother always puts aside the salads and quinoa and unending broiled chicken whenever Dean cooks for them. The air conditioner rattles a few times overhead as they eat, drawing alarmed looks, but nothing comes of it.

It's still cool by the time he goes to sleep, so it seemed like it’d probably hold well enough. The air drifts over his skin before he drags his covers over himself, burrowing down into a pillow he’d had long enough to wear down to just the right shape instead of some bleach-sour motel pillow all lumpy with the weight of a hundred different heads.

There wasn’t anything for now, and that was okay, he tells himself, just like he tells himself all the time, as of late. No hunts, no Blade, no absentee gods or their amorous sisters.

Dean sleeps, and his dreams are full of strangeness, blurs of bayou fog and wet warmth, enough to suffocate in, that drags down and condenses in his straining lungs. Somehow, something about that bile blackness was familiar enough to feel like home, enough that he sinks instead of struggling— 

He wakes to a drowning heat that pulses dully under his skin, sticking to drenched sheets. Everything is fog, curling in his peripheral vision in the dark, above him. Around him, pooling over his covers where he’d kicked them off. They’d tangled around his legs, and he’s barely shoved them off before he realizes it isn’t fog at all. It’s billowing steam, like before, and stark silence, and— 

He swears and slings himself out of bed, rubbing away the haze in his eyes. Stretching for the lampswitch floods the room with too-bright light— and reveals nothing but clear air around himself, despite the pervasive heat. He blinks, scanning the room. In the top corner, the air vent, spits out the frailest curls of steam.

Swearing again, he throws his knife back onto his rumpled bed. He pulls on his robe, immediately regretting it in the muggy warmth and yanking it back off to toss it over his chair. Fuck it. In the hallway, he nearly runs right into Sam. Sam, who looks less concerned and more like a heatstroke victim, skin flushed pink and hair sticking to his neck. 

Either way, Dean’s heartbeat slows.

“So, I think maybe your fixes didn’t hold,” Sam suggests, and as far as a just-woken Sam went, it’s downright tactful.

“Yeah, no kidding.” Dean replies tartly.

Sam considers him. He’s still pulling on his shirt. Already, it sticks to his skin.

“...You hungry?” Sam offers, and before Dean can reply, Castiel appears out of the dim behind his brother.

“I see you’ve both noticed that the repairs have failed.”

Dean takes personal offense to this because 2am Dean has already reached his limit on blunt, but Sam’s already on the ball, waving a conciliatory hand in the air. 

“Something must’ve come loose, that’s all. We’ll check it out.”

And then Dean’s halfway into the goddamn ceiling again, his pajamas collecting dust like it’s a contest as he sweats through his worn shirt and wishes he’d just listened when Sam suggested he wear the dorky-ass headlight.

“Yeah, so nothing up here’s come loose. Shit, all of this—” He squints, trying to find anything that looked out of sorts, but all he could find was what he’d already found before. He leans back to listen as he heard Sam’s voice filter through the ceiling tiles, voice craggy with sleep and cranky with heat.

“Dean, we should just leave it for now. It’s warm, but the air’s still moving- so the ventilation’s working, at least enough that we won’t suffocate in our sleep.”

“And?”

“So it’s not an emergency. We sweat it out and try to get some sleep. Then tomorrow, we can head into town, see if we can get it figured out.”

“We could just go right now—”

“It’s past 3, Dean. Nowhere’s open. Lebanon, remember?”

Deans climbs down partway, letting his forehead thunk against an aluminum step. His shirt’s stuck to him again, and he fans himself with a hand as sweat rolls down his throat to stick to his crewneck.

“Shit. Yeah… Yeah, okay. So tomorrow, we figure it out. Tonight, we just boil. Peachy.”

This time, when Dean takes that last step back to solid ground, it’s with a thud instead of a leap. Sam hands him a cup of tea at the bottom. It’s not his thing, even if Sam’s been trying to get him in on his whole plant water kick, but he’s thirsty, and it’s cooler than he is. He doesn’t recognize the flavor-- it’s tart, earthy and sour on his tongue, and he pulls a face as he leans up against the table.

“C’mon, Dean, we survived whole summers in the Impala. At least here, there’s room to stretch out. We even have a few fans around, don’t we?”

“...I mean, probably,” Dean concedes, albeit grudgingly. “I call the one from this decade, though. You can have the one that wails like Mary Magdalene.”

“Hey, if that’s what it takes to get your head out of the gears and gets me back in bed? Fine, you big baby.”

Dean smirks as Sam’s broad frame lumbers out of the kitchen, and barely stops short of rubbing his dusty hands on his pajama pants. He takes his half-empty glass to the sink, setting it aside and spinning open the tap to shove his hands under, but yanks them back just as quick as scalding hot water spills out.

“Sonnuva _bitch_ —”

His skin is already pinking sharply. It’s only a few fingers, but they’re stinging dry and hot and, well, that’s definitely gonna leave a mark. He waves his hand in the air to try and cool them, because twisting the tap to what’s generally the frigid prairie morning side doesn’t do much anything to lower the temperature. He goes for the icebox next, only stilling when Cas steps up behind him and reaches out to clasp his hand in his own. Dean automatically tries to brush him off, but it’s too late. 

It’s hard to imagine warmth as feeling that great at the very moment-- but healing the way Cas does it, it’s a soft film, one that wells up and burns under his skin until the outside doesn’t, and Cas lets him wave him off when it’s through- even if waving him off just means the angel ceded a few inches to propriety.

Dean shifts from foot to foot, turning to face the other man fully. He’s barefoot, sweaty and sticky in pajamas that were a definite goner-- but not Cas, no. Castiel, as always, is dressed in full suit and tie, trenchcoat falling wrinkled over his shoulders. Not that Dean minds the look— to the contrary, anything else unsettles him on Cas— but when Dean’s not dressed, he doesn’t like the contrast. The balance is too pointedly off and the whole holy tax accountant thing feels all too real, leaving Dean a snotty immoral ape barefoot before a calculated wavelength of pure will. 

To put it short, it’s not his thing.

“It’s three in the morning, Cas. You’ve gotta loosen up a little. Get you some PJs, pajama pants, just something other than salaryman on overtime, alright?”

“It’s past four, Dean. You’re aware that I don’t sleep. What would I possibly need pajamas for?”

“I don’t know, man, just— they’re nice. Sometimes it’s nice to put on something you can’t possibly be a productive member of society in.” Dean’s already accepted that he won’t get through to Cas on the matter, but he does reach out to loosen his tie another centimeter with a tug. Castiel crooks his brows at him as Dean yawns, big and messy.

“... You’re tired, Dean. Go to sleep.”

There’s not much he can argue there. Soon enough, he’s plugging in a creaky fan next to his bed and angling it for maximum air. It’d be cooler if he left the door open, but it feels strange- not like he hasn’t slept in dodgier places, basically out in the open even if his back’s against the wall or Sammy or shelter.

It’s barely half an hour before he’s given up even that, jamming the rickety old fan in the doorway and letting the door close on it, a whirring breeze that’s at least marginally cooler than his room is currently. It’s funny— he thought it’d be futile, trying to sleep that way, but here… It feels different, somehow. 

Dean expects the prickling feeling of being watched to keep his eyelids light, but instead he’s the one keeping himself up. He just keeps staring at his hand. Cas had healed it; he knew that he did. Dean knows that strange ripple of warmth down to the molecule. It looks normal at every angle he could find.

But somehow, it still stings.


	2. pilgrimage

_The bunker waits. It’s incapable of repairing these particular damages on its own, nor does it really care to. And so it waits, and it fills with steam, the crack in the garage seeping like a fresh wound._

 

Castiel doesn’t leave the kitchen for a long while, idly studying the ceiling panels Dean left ajar. He pushes the ladder aside, leaning it against the wall and returning Dean’s adopted toolbox back to rights, brushing off the new smears of dust.

Nights were long without the Winchesters’ idle chatter and movement to fill the space. Often, Castiel would find need to leave; a mission, or a cause, coarse irritants to draw him away from this small, foreign haven. But even when he was here, it was still more like watching from behind glass; studying, instead of living.

For now, at least, he has a new mystery to deduce, one that would keep him right here. He leans back, inhaling the soft, familiar scent, and sets himself to determining where he’d felt it before. The heat doesn’t bother him; he’s aware of the rising temperature, of course, and he could feel the way it clings to his vessel, but it doesn’t drag at him the way it does Sam and Dean.

Castiel ponders his day, and he wanders, as he usually does. He makes circles through the bunker, hands clasped loosely at the small of his back. There’s a usual path that he treads: it circles through the lower layers first, and then slowly back to more well-tread paths to emerge near the hallways where the bedrooms were, and then begins anew. It’s a meditative trek, the solid steadiness of shoe soles on smooth concrete as he thought. The bunker is his own labyrinth, a minor pilgrimage in lieu of one more vast, but one that never ceased to draw him closer and clear his thoughts- even if at times, clarity only complicated everything further.

His starting and ending point being near the hallway meant that, if he chose, he could go and sit in the library, or the so-called “guest room”, insofar as the Winchesters housed visitors. He has no need for a room of his own, but these served well enough as places to wait.

It also, circumspectly enough, gives him a chance to pause by Dean’s door, a fixed point in his small pilgrimage. Dean Winchester himself seems to be a fixed point in more than that— a measurement much too small to contain millennia, but somehow more than enough to mark it by. And if that isn’t concerning enough to mull over during his walks, it was only because he’s somehow come to accept it as fact enigmatic.

In any matter, from outside this fixed point, he can let his mind wander; was Dean dreaming, right now? What of? Though he purposes not to “eavesdrop”, as Sam puts it, thanks to their oft-repeated stance on the matter, sometimes their minds were all but shouting to be heard-- and those shouts were rarely pleasant meanderings or daydreams. He is gratified, almost, to walk by Sam’s room and hear nothing, an emptiness that spoke of calm, rather than the young man’s usual well-buried turmoil.

This time though, when he walks past Dean’s door, he finds it propped open. A clunky fan drags in air from the hallway, and it sputters a little as it runs. Dean himself lays flat on his back on the floor by his bed, arms and legs splayed carelessly. He wears nothing but undergarments, boxers like Castiel’s own vessel had preferred, and he looks miserable.

“Forgot you’d be wandering around this time of night.”

Castiel had thought he wasn’t awake, but Dean’s voice, while coarse with sleep, is just pointed enough to be aimed right at him.

“Are you alright, Dean? You don’t usually take rest on the floor.”

“Just dandy, Cas. That’s why I’m laying on cement,” Dean groans. He gestures halfheartedly at the mussed bedsheets. “Bed’s too warm. Goddamn heat trap.”

Dean scrapes a hand through short-shorn hair, leaving it sticking up in a trail behind his fingers. His skin’s flushed, sweat prickling on him and glistening in the dim hall light. 

Castiel’s never really seen him like this; it catches his curiosity. He’s seen Dean sweat before, of course— through brute violence, or action, or otherwise dire circumstances. He’s seen Dean in repose as well, cheek plastered against the library table between piles of books, or his too-long form crumpled into the backseat of the Impala. 

But this is somewhere inbetween.

Castiel enters without waiting for a formal invitation, as he’d learned that the Winchesters rarely offered them, but seldom took exception to him taking the liberty. He comes to his haunches next to where Dean lays sprawled on the floor.

“Are you really so uncomfortable, Dean?”

“It’s only a thousand degrees and counting, Cas, you tell me.”

Castiel cocks his head, studying him steadily. “Is there cause for alarm? Do you require assistance?”

“Only if you’ve got a white sand beach and a balmy breeze on hand. Oh, and maybe some friendly babes in seriously- and I mean _seriously_ \- tiny bikinis, with long dark hair and curves that just don’t quit... A couple ice-cold cervezas with lime...” Dean sighs, brow knitting a little as he wets a soft pink lower lip with his tongue, like he can already taste the salt tang of ocean air— and then exhales noisily, letting his head thunk back against the floor. He stretches out, a sleepy, pleasant motion.

“Nah, Cas, don’t worry about it- it’s not much worse than a summer heatwave. Just… hot. Two showers in today and I’m already angling for a third, so all I’m hoping for is that the tap runs colder than room temperature this time. God, I’d take an ice shower right about now.”

Castiel remembers showers; as a human, he’d rather enjoyed them. He’d even attempted a cold shower, once, at Dean’s suggestion. At least, he’d taken it as an actual suggestion, and thus given it a solid try. 

Sam had laughed at his gooseprickled skin and sour mouth for the entire evening after.

“...I presume the cold shower is for your heightened temperature, and not inappropriate thoughts.” Castiel says.

After a second, Dean almost chokes on a soft, inelegant snort, and Cas’ lips curl at his own joke, pleased at the sound he’d caused.

“Yeah, Cas.” Dean drawls. He has one arm flung out over the concrete, away from them, but the other is flat on his bare belly, a lazy curve of blunt fingers that were as easily turned to violence as any anything else. Castiel studies them, and the skin they touch; Dean’s torso is flushed, a bare sheen of sweat clinging to him.

“...You do look like you need another. You look… sticky.” Castiel leans in a little closer, studying, and Dean's eyes meet his for half a second before he lifts his hand to shoo at him.

“C’mon, Cas- personal space, we talked about this.”

They have indeed, several times, and though Dean has never fully explained them to Castiel’s satisfaction, Castiel had mapped out his own guidelines that seemed to work well enough. He remembers the rules of it much like those of combat, the gist of it being: don’t put Dean in a position that made him feel like he had the lower hand in a fight. Currently, Dean was on his back on the floor, and Castiel leant over him. Therefore, the position broke the rule. Castiel leans back away from him and Dean visibly relaxes a fraction, guideline proven once more.

Dean yawns and sits up, folding his arms over his knees to look at him.

“What are you even doing here anyway, man?”

“Walking.”

”It’s night. I know you don’t sleep, but don’t you ever just... relax? Where do you put your feet up?”

“Sometimes I sit in the guest room.”

Dean furrows his brow questioningly. “Guest— oh, that one? Cas— I mean, you’re welcome to it, sure, but- you’re not a guest here. You know that, right?”

Castiel, while aware of many, many things, was not so specifically aware of that; of course, he knew he was welcome. That he was one of them. But this? It was _their_ home.

Meanwhile, the furrow in Dean’s brow is growing deep enough to get lost in.

“...Really, we haven’t given you a room yet?”

Castiel tilts his head at him as Dean hefts himself up off the floor with a sigh. His knees crack, and he stretches out his spine crookedly with a growling sigh. Then, he holds out a hand to Castiel.

“C’mon.”

“Where to?”

“You, buddy, are gonna choose a room. Here and now. C’mon.”

While Castiel had no need of help to stand, Dean’s hand was warm in his own as he let him assist.

Dean grabs a shirt from where it was thrown over the end of the bed, presumably before he abandoned it for cooler terrain, and pulls it over his head. It sticks stubbornly until Dean yanks it down, but aside from a passing glance at a similarly discarded pair of worn pajama pants (and despite a tendency for covering himself head to foot), Dean doesn’t add anything else to his minimalist ensemble A cock of his head to the door, and Castiel finds himself following after him into the hallway.

“Well, let’s pace this out. There’s more than enough rooms, seriously, so you can have your pick. There’s this one further down the hall— I mean, personally, it was my second choice— great layout, it’s got this nice little nook or whatever and— ”

“That one.” Castiel says bluntly, pointing to the next door over from Dean’s.

Dean blinks, like he’d been just starting a spiel and wasn’t expecting not to finish it— likely because that was exactly the case. But Castiel doesn’t see the purpose in it; while he enjoys hearing Dean talk, even this sleep deprived ramble, he’s already made up his mind.

Dean’s still looking at him askance, and Castiel repeats himself, in case he was mistaken. He’s not often at the bunker for long, not lately; perhaps it’s come into use.

“Is it taken?”

“...I mean, no. It’s empty. You… don’t wanna take a look, even?”

“No.” Castiel replies simply.

“You just want… that one. I mean. Okay. Well. That’s that, then. It’s yours. I- think there’s a couple boxes in there, books Sam was moving around, but just toss ‘em in the next room over. We’ll get them into the library eventually. You… sure you don’t even want to look at it first?”

“I’m certain.” 

A pause, and he lifts a hand to Dean’s shoulder— his right shoulder, because while he doesn’t avoid his left, there was something unavoidably intimate about laying his hand onto the faded, perfectly fitted handprint on the man’s skin. Pleasant and strange as it may be in that first moment, it then unfailingly made Dean quite impossible to deal with for days after, all one-liners and circular brush-offs that make Castiel tired.

He makes no sense of it. But, all things told, part of knowing Dean seemed to simply be knowing his limitations.

“Thank you, Dean. This means a great deal to me.”

“Ha, well— maybe, stick around more often, alright? Get some use out of it.” Dean swallows as Castiel’s hand falls back to his side, and he rubs the back of his neck, looking up and down the hallways.

“Well, it’s late. I’m gonna… try and get some sleep. You alright taking it from here?”

Castiel nods, because why wouldn’t he be? Dean gives him one last look and returns to his room, stepping around the shin-high fan in the doorway. There was still something strangely out of place about seeing him flop down onto his bed through the doorframe, an angular painting composed in dim light and skin. 

Castiel watches, examining him until Dean lifted a brow at him quite directly, raising his voice though he knew that Castiel could hear him in the faintest whisper.

“ _Goodnight_ , Cas.”

Castiel turns his even gaze away with a nod, turning to open the door to his new abode. He inspects it carefully from the doorway, looking over the small space. It was confining, yes— his true form couldn’t possibly fit within the bounds of it— but there's almost something pleasant about those same boundaries. 

This was his. 

Dean— and Sam, yes, because when Dean gave, it was of a deeper well than just his own means— had given it to him. He reaches up to the tie that Dean had loosened, tugging it further with a crooked finger, and sits on the bed. His bed. Dust doesn’t fly up under his weight, so that’s already a positive sign.

The walls are deep navy, and aside from the made up bed, it’s barely more than furnished. A desk sits empty in one corner, chair tucked in neatly. The boxes Dean had mentioned are piled haphazardly on top of a side drawer.

The idea of his own room was a stupid one, a useless concept, yes, but— it was strangely interesting. Exciting, almost. He remembered his days as a human, that deep-seated yearning for a safe place to lie his head and leave his few possessions. A place to be still, when one wasn’t working or on the road or on the case, as it often was. It was an important place, symbolically and physically; he remembered the line of Dean’s shoulders, the first time Castiel had come to the bunker and been given the ‘tour’ as it were. The tentatively proud set to his jaw— the way he kept stealing glances at Castiel, looking for his reaction. His approval, perhaps, or just a shared pleasure, the same that he wore as they went through room after room. Theirs.

But what Castiel remembers specifically, oddly enough, is just Dean’s duffle— sitting unpacked in the corner of Dean’s room, instead of tossed in the trunk of the Impala or sitting open on a luggage rack in a dusty motel that spoke of nothing but transience. 

This is a home, and many humans seemed to need them more than nearly anything else; Dean was no different. Something tangible had changed when he started expecting to _return_ somewhere after each case.

Castiel turns his head to the wall that he and Dean share— and at what point did the wall that was his become the wall that was Dean’s? Precisely in the middle, logically enough, but humans were illogical by nature and ownership was a tricky, imprecise concept at best. Curious to consider, however.

It’s a long way until dawn, so he lies back— then pauses, sitting up to look down at his loafers. He toes them off pointedly and then lies down again on top of the bed, covers and all, and closes his eyes. 

He doesn’t sleep, of course, so he doesn’t dream. But as the soft, thick warmth of the air curls around his temples and settles in his lungs, familiar and sweet smelling— what was that scent?-- he sees images behind his eyelids all the same.

He sees walls breaking down, crumbling into nothing. His newly claimed room, the walls descending, crumbling into Dean’s— and when he wakes, as it were, he wakes with his heart pounding, his veins pulsing adrenaline fight-or-flight, and if that weren’t a dream, he doesn’t know what is.

He opens his eyes to footsteps, sitting up to see Sam’s tall shadow pass his open doorway. The taller man is barefoot, and his steps slosh in a way that echoes off the tile, a soft, wet sucking sound.

Castiel frowns, swinging his legs off the bed to stand. His navy socks are instantly soaked black, squelching in a distinctly unpleasant manner as he leans into the hallway. The floors are covered with water, reaching up to his ankles and soaking further up his leg as his socks gather up the water greedily. He misses his shoes.

“Sam,” He calls out, stepping into the hall.  


The other man doesn’t acknowledge him, and Castiel frowns. Perhaps he's sleepwalking; Dean had spoken of it, several times. Sam’s subconscious uncertainties, anxieties, at times reach a fever pitch, one he would manifest through walking in his sleep, miles and miles of unfulfilled terrain without ever knowing, ever since he was a child. You weren’t to interrupt; it could do more harm than good. Best to let sleeping Sams lie.

He presses forward, following as Sam drifts through the halls. It is, he realizes after a few moments, the same exact route he himself takes. He pauses by the kitchen, that sacred gathering place, and the bottom of the garage stairwell, where the Impala soundly rests. The round line of rooms, empty and otherwise. Sam’s room itself, the door open and room dark. Dean’s, the fan wedged into the doorway, still on his covers in the shadows. 

Sam’s route repeats, again and again, Castiel almost transfixed by the oddity. He hadn’t been aware either of the Winchesters had noticed his patterns. His slacks are wet to the knee now, water slowly leaching up into the pressed fabric. 

The thought of racing to catch up to him, to do something about all this, seems absurd; as absurd as the break in pattern when Sam suddenly disappears back into his own room, door closing in a soft sweeping slosh of water, leaving nothing but an inch of wet that steamed, sending soft coils of unplaceable scent crawling up Castiel’s skin.

Castiel, transfixed, finishes his own pilgrimage. Sam’s door, closed. Dean, the fan, body pliant in repose. His own, now, waiting for Castiel as his flat-toed accountant shoes float past him into the hallway. He plucks them up almost gently, and sets them on his empty desk before curling into the center of his bed, steam coiling gently against his skin as he closes his eyes.


	3. monolith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _There's some Adult Content ahead. Skip to the end if you want a heads-up or march on, you brave little soldier._

_  
It draws them in, cradling them close, soothing their concerns as it watches over its charges with new eyes. Locking down against the growing threat out of the outside, it can feel things crumbling, all around it, fragmenting into new growth. No matter. It’s battened down, snugged close, and sealed up tight._

_The bunker is finally warm.  
_

 

When Dean awakes, it’s mostly in defeat. His bed is a warzone, sheets tangled and half-stripped from the corners to do that thing that fitted sheets do when they get free, the pillows crumpled, sad, punched things.

He rolls over and shoves his face into his pillow with a muffled groan, but recoils when he finds it damp with sweat— and that was it, that last straw he’s been looking for. Giving up, he drags himself out of bed, rubbing sandpaper from his eyes as his back aches all the way to the shower. On the way, the clock reminds him that it’s nearly six in the AM— something he sorely considers both success in lasting that long and a parting potshot, seeing as it’s barely been two hours since his face hit the damn pillow. 

He flips the faucet cooler than he usually likes it, just to shake the last of the flush from his skin. So it’s just salt in the wound when the shower spits hot water onto his shoulders, jolting him awake even faster than the cold shower he’d been aiming for. 

He jerks, skin pinking under the spray as he jams the faucet handle only to find that it _was_ on cold. Probably due to the whole not quite fixed thing. Either way, the hot water situation was even worse than yesterday’s lukewarm shower.

Dean scowls up at the showerhead, and then, grudgingly, shuffles back under the hot spray. It would take a moment to get used to, several degrees too hot for comfort, but at least it was cleaner than he was, right? It even felt sorta nice, beating down onto muscles sore from hours of tossing and turning into frigging human origami. He presses his forehead against the warm tiles, his palms against the wall as he uses the water pressure to try and roll out the cricks in his shoulders and giving a soft groan as his back finally, finally cracks and god how pathetic was it that that was what sent a warm tingle all the way down to his toes?

Sure, he’d embraced the whole live fast, die young thing, thrown himself into it with the zeal of a much younger idiot, but after the whole ‘die young’ part hadn’t taken, years and years of being a monster of the week chew toy is starting to wear him through. And sure, the angel-powered hard reset had helped, the unmistakable pulse of warm heat following Cas’ touch when he did his healing mojo. Didn’t mean he had to _like_ needing it sometimes.

Or even just wanting it, other times.

Turning to face up into the hissing spray, he lifts his hand to look at his fingers. The one Cas had healed up looked fine, the only pink fresh from the hot water, but the skin still felt dry, stretched taut. But hell, it doesn’t hurt, so he shrugs it off.

He closes his eyes against the water, now that he’s nearly adjusted to the temperature. Steam is slowly filling the room, curling in the air and coating the shower wall, licking at his skin and loosening the line of his shoulders even as the heat rises. 

He scrubs at his hair, molding the shampoo between his fingers, as he lets the water run over the line of his back, soap rivulets down bare skin. His hands skim his belly and he breathes out steam.

It coils around him like a living caress, leaving prickling skin behind. 

The heat really isn’t so terrible; it’s even starting to feel good, gentle like fingertips, and doesn’t _that_ remind him of just how long it’s been since he’d been touched. He doesn’t censor himself, not alone like this; why should he start now? Hell’s a wreck, Heaven’s a ghost town— the way he figures it, good old human hedonism is the only game in town worth his time.

Hand sliding south, he groans deep in his throat and leans back, shoulders against the wall as he idly flips through his well-worn fantasy rolodex. He settles on a simple thought; a cheerleader, with lush dark hair and a cherry-red mouth.

Her hands know just how to touch him as he closes his eyes and imagines, his own hand working slow and steady. When she slid to her knees her tongue knew better still, working skillfully enough at him that he let slide another sound, louder this time. He’s louder than he meant— if a lifetime of him and Sam living in and out of each other’s pockets had taught him anything, it was some subtlety, alright— but something about this felt _good_ , so obscenely real he just couldn’t help himself.

He bites back another sound pointedly, like a rebuke to himself. It’s hard to think, like the steam’s creeping up in the wet nooks of his brain and fogging up the windshield, but he could swear when he opens his eyes partway that he can see her, kneeling in front of him, dark hair wet silk tumbles over her shoulders as the water slicks down her back.

She looks up with a smile, but she wasn’t quite the girl he’d been imagining. Older, first off, with elegant lines to her face. And instead of cherry lipstick, she wore a quirked smile on her wet, passion-bruised lips— and when she stands, he can’t take his eyes off her. 

Nothing about her says cheerleader; she’s draped in white robes, thin like silk and transparent where they cling to her skin, her curves as bare before him as the dark blush of her nipples where they bead against the spray. It’s not his usual daydream— but hell if he’s not willing to add it to the menu. He swallows hard, leaning back, grip tightening the slightest. His breath shallows out.

_“Hello, Dean.”_

The soft whisper carries in the steam, and their noses brush before he tastes her mouth on his, her lips still sticky with him, and that slick-stickyness that makes him tingle— he knows it’s a daydream. A fantasy. But damn if he couldn’t taste her tasting him, and if it wasn’t the biggest fucking turn-on— 

“--Oh, hey, sweetheart. And just what should I call you…?”

Her mouth curves, sweet as sin, and— _“No.”_

Dean’s barely opened his mouth before she continues, _“You don’t really need a name, do you?”_

Her hand skims his chest, scraping a pink nail over his nipple and smiling sweet as it knots, as he jumps a little at the coil of heat. Piercing eyes — not blue, not like the girl he thought he was dreaming, but ones that make his breath catch in his chest, and he reaches out to feel her in response.

She watches him intently as she strokes him. His hand slides down her skin, eagerly following the trails of water dripping down her sides, teasing down the slick vee of her sex as the water drenches them both.

_“Oh, you’ll do.”_ She breathes softly, and Dean doesn’t know exactly what that’s supposed to mean, but what’s it matter? Just synapses sparking off hot as she strokes him and he strokes her, his eyes fluttering closed on a moan. When she lets go, he murmurs a complaint— one that dies in his throat as she grips his shoulder and spins him up against the shower wall with ease and _oh._

This was gonna be _that_ kinda fantasy.

He presses his forehead against the hot tile as her hands slide over his hips, wet silk robes brushing up against him, hands squeezing, soft chuckle low against his ears as she drags him back against her, _“Is this a little closer to what you want? I can go a lot further, Dean. So much further.”_

“Tell me that’s a promise, babe.”

He smirks and his cheek knocks against the tile when she shoves him, steam burning down his throat as he sucks in a breath. He can taste the faintest tinge of copper on his teeth, and it goes straight to his dick because of course it does, he’s fucked up like that, remember? 

Her hands drag up his sides, tracing the lines of his last rib, the way it gives just a little under her touch before she continues. When her fingers run over his chest, they’re different than before; broader, callused.

He has to hold back a moan, back arching against her as teeth brush the back of his neck.

The world is all steam and soft and slippery around him, head bowed as he looks down at himself, something sparking startled as he recognizes the hands cupped around his ribcage, even if he’s never seen them like _that_ before— 

—“Cas?”

“Dean,” Castiel rumbles like smoke and molten gravel behind him, and Dean starts to twist before those hands tighten concrete on his sides, “Dean, shh. Don’t turn around or it all ends, this daydream—” and his hand slid down, curving around Dean’s cock, “don’t ruin this,” he whispers against Dean’s neck as Dean bites off a moan. Haze clouds thick around them, sweetness that leaves a bitter tang on his lips, and after a moment he presses his palms against the tile wall and pushes his hips back against the angular plane of Castiel’s, melting hot like summer asphalt and he can _feel_ him and fuck all this, he _wanted_ , the way he’d been pushing down and they’d been pushing at for _years_ — 

The dam breaks, and they flood together, and it’s all this terrifying animal heat and breathless broken-off gasps, all “Cas- _Cas-_ ”, and when Dean comes it’s the hardest he’s ever come probably in his life, striping his hand and the tile as he comes to—

— Alone.

Because it was a daydream.

Alone, even as his skin vibrates at some molecular level, a languid hum sunken into him as he sinks forward against the wall and just _breathes_. Something catches at the corner of his mind, arced like a question, maybe even a concern— but it doesn’t find a foothold, and after a few moments it slides away as easy as water over stone.

He rakes a hand through his hair, limbs loose, standing under the spray and letting it sear away the evidence (because Cas, it was _Cas_ , c'mon and just because he routinely thought a couple questionable _things_ about basically everyone they'd met didn't mean... It didn't mean the same).

He doesn’t do that, not about the ones he really cares about. Feelings— his feelings in particular— always end bloody. He’s seen Cas broken too many times not to ignore the way he watches him— Dean isn’t stupid, and he isn’t oblivious, either. Sure, maybe at first; Castiel, he was an angel. A being. ( _A monster_ , his father murmurs, because even a decade later his voice is still etched into the b-side of his brain). 

And Dean, well. Dean prefers a softer kind of beauty, even now. 

Castiel… he isn’t beautiful, not the way Dean figures that kind of thing. He was striking, sure, the same way lightning is; blinding, static and the alien smell of ozone so parched it could be set off with a spark. His dour mouth is just as dry no matter how many chapsticks Dean pointedly tucks in the pockets of his trenchcoat, lips creased and pink like the line of his own hand and just as familiar— 

And even now, the thought of him runs his mouth dry.

Dean scowls, dragging his battered towel over his skin with a ferocious little twist, and leaves behind a shower’s worth of useless thoughts. It wasn’t as if it was any cooler _outside_ the shower; he just trades wet for dry, and not even that for long once he was dressed again.

 

___________________________________________________________________

 

It’s nearly a sane hour of the morning, and Dean’s sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of steaming black coffee like his life depends on it when Castiel walks in.

“Morning, Cas,” Dean starts, but Castiel isn’t paying attention, looking around their kitchen with furrowed brows.

“It’s stronger.” Castiel said. He starts pacing the kitchen, studying vents with pursed lips, wandering closer to Dean as he goes. Dean watches him from over his coffee cup, but when Castiel gets close enough, he pauses, cocks his head at Dean— and leans in to smell him.

Dean nearly spills his coffee all over himself. The angel inhales deep enough that Dean can practically feel his hair stick up.

“Cas,” He growls. At least, he hopes it’s a growl, and not a prepubescent squawk because all his doofus downstairs brain can think of for one white-hot second is unvarnished filth and holy fuck what if Cas can _tell_ — 

“It’s in the water.” Castiel straightens up to watch him.

“—what?”

“The scent. It must be the water. You’re... coated in it.”

Dean stares up at him flatly, and Castiel finally retreats a few inches. Still, he continues before Dean can open his mouth.

“Has anything happened, Dean? Do you feel strange, or unusual?”

Dean stares at him for a moment, a bolt of pure panic inside and flippant outside. Sort of, anyway. Enough.

“What? No and no, Cas. Lay off me, will ya?”

Castiel nods slowly, “...Good. I’ll have to ask your brother if he’s felt any adverse effects, as well. I found him walking in his sleep last night.”

“Sleepwalking?? It’s been— years, probably,” Dean replies, startled out of his embarrassment. His brow furrows; probably since the trials. Or maybe even everything with Gadreel, that asshole. With Kevin.

He cuts that thought off, taking a pull of too-hot coffee instead. It burns all the way down. 

Sam walks in, and their conversation comes to a practiced lull smooth as anything. Still, Dean takes the opportunity to stand, sending a scowl Sam’s way. His brother returns it with raised brows and a questioning twitch of a frown in Cas’ direction, gesture reading ‘what’s got up his ass’ clear as day.

“About time, Sam. C’mon, daylight’s a’wasting.”

“ _Daylight_ is barely even here yet, Dean. Besides, what do you know about mornings?” Sam grumbles right back, but mostly he’s ignoring him.

That same daylight — the idea of it, anyway— bothers Dean; the idea of more heat against his skin, the low Kansas sun searing at his eyes, heatwave glistening over blistered prairies even at this godforsaken hour. The thought alone makes him want to curl back up in his bed and sleep, useless or not.

But nothing’s going to get fixed until he fixes it, and when it comes to bothersome ideas, the idea of his home out of sorts makes his palms itch. 

One problem at a time, right? And this is going to be the easiest. After, the cool air will let him get his head right, and then they can tackle the rest. That was the plan they’d cobbled together, anyway. Head to town, hit the Home Depot, and dig in. Hopefully before the unsettling quiet of the last couple weeks breaks open, and they’re hit with the usual hail of missing people and fishy coincidences and plain old monster hunts.

Not even the siren call of the open road tempts him more than a few moments, he realizes. It throws off his equilibrium, and recalibration is nothing but sluggish. He hesitates, then scowls and plucks the Impala’s keys from his pocket, swings the ring in his hand with a sharp rustle of metal on metal as he gestures for the other two to start moving.

Cas is in the lead, nearing the top of the steps when Dean feels that spine-deep ripple of tension in his system that means _wrong_ , something’s _wrong_. 

As fucking always, he’s entirely attuned to the angel ahead, the way his body goes alert and still. Dean is already taking the last steps two at a time, safety off and he doesn’t stop until he sees what stopped Cas in his tracks.

The entryway is blocked by a bone-white stone, a slab nearly as tall as Sam when he loses that slight tall guy hunch and lets himself fill a space. It has a hand-hewn roundness to it, and a strange texture that resolved upon study into hundreds, thousands of sigils, every inch of alabaster covered. 

It as still as a rock should be, sure, but it trembles with aura. Castiel hasn’t said a word, and neither of them have taken their eyes off of it.

“...What is that?” Concern roughs the edges of Castiel’s tone, and something about that raises Dean’s hackles, like maybe Cas should just _chill_ for maybe five seconds and—

“...New.” Dean says, gaze dragging over the uneven lines of symbols. They wind around to a bigger glyph up near the top— one that seemed familiar somehow. Comforting, even. Enough that he lowers his gun until all it threatens is scuffed concrete. 

Cas breaks his staring contest with the rock to glance at him, eyes flicking between Dean’s face and his lowered gun. His face does that wrinkling thing right around his eyes as they narrow in question.

“Quit working yourself up, Cas, it’s just— an oversized rock.” Dean scoffs, because c’mon. It was true, right?

He clicks the safety back on, holstering his gun. The metal’s a cool weight against the small of his back. A shiver tingles at his skin, and he adjusts his jacket with a tug.

Sam had been lagging behind, feet dragging on the steps as he came up behind, but he stops in turn with them.

“Well, that—- that’s a new one.”

“Get your own line, sasquatch.”

“Priorities any, Dean— also, what the hell is it?” Sam steps dubiously onto the landing, squinting at the pale sigils. Dean finds he much prefers Sam’s tone to Cas’, an almost placid curiosity more than anything else.

“And what’s it doing here to begin with?” Castiel points out sharply, but both Dean and Sam are already approaching it.

“This is… elaborate.” Sam understates gracelessly.

“You recognize any of it?” Dean replies, tilting his head to follow a line of— well, gibberish.

“...Not a word.” Sam frowns, “...Cas, you got anything here?” He watches Castiel come closer, the angel’s shoulders squaring as he looks between them.

“I think both of you should stay away from it.” Castiel says in response, nostrils flaring at their matching skeptical expressions. Castiel’s own tightens and sours, and they both take a few steps back placatingly, until the angel is between them and the shivering still stone.

“Better…?” Dean asks from behind Castiel’s shoulder. This time, he’s actually asking, voice pitched low in calculated comfort, soothing and placating both as he studies him. The line of Castiel’s shoulders smooths slightly.

“We don’t know what it is,” the angel reiterates, “or why it’s here, or—”

“-- Or what it says, right?” Sam cuts in, studying Castiel’s face, “Because you can’t read it, either.”

Dean frowns.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait. What happened to your whole omniscient renaissance rainman deal?” He cut in disbelievingly, gesturing at the stone, and his arm is pushed back down in response.

“I don’t know. It seems to be ‘on the fritz’, as it were.” Castiel replies tersely.

Great. 

Dean’s fingers twitch closed around the Impala’s keys, searching out the visceral sense-memory they always, always jolt; the warm highway rumble, that bone-deep road hum that lingers for hours after a long ride— but nothing. Hardly even an itch to let the outside air fill up his lungs, just as hot as in here as it was dry as chaff out there.

He taps the handrail, only half-listening to Sam and Castiel’s muted voices. In his periphery, Castiel moves forward, and he turns to watch as the angel studies the runes.

Castiel traces every line. The stone is silent under his fingertips, and he’s just as quiet as he moves around it. He looks uncomfortable, even as he patiently follows every jagged scrape.

Dean’s resorted to leaning back against the railing, drumming absently on the metal, a tattoo of dime-sized drumbeats that echo so, so softly in the rounded room.

“Well?” Sam asks, and Dean jumps, blinking out of his reverie. Castiel furrows his brows, looking just as startled.

“It’s—” Castiel pauses, looking back at the stone.

“...I still don’t know.”

“Wait, so what’ve you been reading for the past twenty minutes, then?” Sam asks with a confused frown, brows up.

And hell, twenty minutes...? Dean glances at the wall clock, confirms with his cell, and frowns. He straightens, rubbing the notch between his eyebrows and trying to pay more attention to the other two.

Castiel’s jaw tightens, dry lips pressing flat for a long moment as he looks away. Sure sign of a troubled Cas, Dean notes.

“I’m… truly not sure.” Castiel admits, and Sam purses his lips. He tries again after a moment.

“Did you… I don’t know, want to try again or something?”

“Not especially, no.” Castiel looks perturbed, and Dean frowns.

“Oh. Okay.” Sam lifts both empty hands uselessly, and shrugs.

“...Okay.”

They all pause. Castiel is staring at the stone with a furrowed brow.

“It shouldn’t be here… right?” He asks them. Sam only shrugs again.

“Kinda looks like we can’t leave as long as it’s here,” he says, but the idea doesn’t seem to bother him. It’s weird, sure, but to be honest it isn’t as if Dean can bring himself to care either.

‘So we need to get rid of it,” Castiel responds, and it almost sounds petulant to Dean’s ears. It’s nearly enough to make him laugh, mouth twitching at the thought. He lets their chatter roll off of him, smooth and silky as sailing. It doesn’t really matter, he figures. 

All he can think about is the stone.

It’s pale, a silent, bone-white monolith. It doesn’t beckon, or shun, or repel— it just does the thing huge boulders do, namely ‘being hefty’ and ‘getting in the way’. Dean knows he should care that it’s there. 

But when he sinks down and leans back against it, all he can bring himself to care about is how blessedly cool it feels against his skin.

“Dean— Dean, what are you doing?”

Cas _cares_ about the stone. His concern makes Dean itch.

He ignores their voices, letting the ice of the stone sink into him, and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIC SPECIFIC WARNINGS:  
> adult fantasy scene, M/F and M/M. Some layered consent issues. Yes, a bit vague, but feel free to dm myself @margotjanewrites or cami at @camillaboojay on twitter for (somewhat more spoilery) specifics, and we're happy to elaborate for you if needed.
> 
>  
> 
> MORE GENERALLY:  
> life, as always, is a frigging disaster... but WE'RE BACK Y'ALL. thanks for waiting (I promise, chapter four's nearly here with some A+ weird deancas content, and the rest has been plotted out from the get-go). And also, jsyk, empirical and definitely unbiased studies have shown that comments _(and these new episodes, jesus dabb you nourish my soul)_ are a wonderful method of divining inspiration <3
> 
>   _~hansy_


	4. on this metal island

******_It paces, prods, settles in to wait. Everything’s in place; the seeds are unseaming. Roots nestle into the walls. Gaps are closed up as they come, sealed up tight ‘til the air grows still. Drawing back lets it all steep, sift, the paranoia dying down as all the pretty things in the slits spill up.  
_**   


  


Castiel has been silently staring at the stone for awhile now. 

It isn’t magic, at least not that he can discern, no telltale background radiation under the dull marble surface. It’s just that; stone. But a stone that will not move, that will not crumble, and though he has tried to destroy it to the best of his abilities, is impossibly present. 

“Give it up already, Cas, c’mon,” Dean says, and the tone of his voice is unlike him, low and drifting. He’s sitting on the steps and leisurely leaning up against the stone, soaking in the cool of the surface; it’s only lukewarm, but compared to the stifling heat growing around them, it’s like ice. He’s halfway to falling asleep, Castiel can read it in his low-leveled lethargy- something else he found peculiar. He’s found Dean quite used to running on empty— at times, it even seemed like he preferred it. Yet another self-destructive habit to keep the man busy, he supposes.

Castiel had at first tried to convince him to move away from the stone, but Dean has been thoroughly and perversely recalcitrant, and Sam has been no help.

Sam stands behind them both, watching quietly. His expression is furrowed, an unfamiliar purse to his lips that Castiel can’t read. Both of them are acting oddly, and Castiel can’t shake his unease, but he pushes forward. Something tells him that if they can just finish this one task, drag themselves out into the dead summer air— it would be enough.

Castiel is waiting for one of them to come up with a plan as they always did, research, or action, but neither of them speak up. He frowns.

“What should happen next?” He prompts, but Dean only opens his eyes halfway, studying him idly.

“Chill, man. It’s too hot to think, or all this… whatever you’re doing. Aren’t you _hot_ yet? It’s like a friggin’ jungle in here, and I’m catching a heat stroke just _watching_ you. C’mon. Come sit. Stretch out. Lay down, take a break.” Dean thumps the spot next to him lazily, eyes half-closed.

Castiel watches Dean, sprawled out long at his feet. He has one leg up, an elbow resting on a bent knee. His head is tilted back against the stone, almost as if in supplication.

Castiel frowns, and lays a hand on the stone. It’s quite cool to the touch; he doesn’t blame Dean for leaning against it, although he’d prefer if the man were at least a little more on alert. Now isn’t the time to relax- or to lie with Dean Winchester, though that’s certainly an offer he hasn’t received before. 

It makes him feel strange. He ignores it.

Everything has been strange; something about this entire situation is like sandpaper on his skin. None of it feels right, but… He can’t say why.

“Sam?”

“Dean’s not wrong, Cas.” Sam shrugs, unhelpfully. “We might as well save our energy. It’s pretty clear there’s no way past this right now— so we’ll figure something out.”

He offers no clue as to what that ‘something’ should be.

Castiel runs a hand over the smooth grooves of one of the sigils, shoving his thumb against it like he can erase it with sheer force of will — which, normally, would yield a very satisfactory result. This lack of response in any manner, heavenly or no, is rapidly turning into a burr in his skin. He even vaguely recognizes the language, which is bothersome enough. 

He should _know_.

“...Perhaps we should go to the archives, and see if we can find a translation for this?” He offers after Sam remains quiet.

“...Sure, Cas. That’s a good idea.” Sam says. Then, he sits next to Dean, and closes his eyes as he relaxes back.

Castiel can nearly feel his brows furrowing grooves into his face.

“I suppose I’ll… go ahead of you, then.” Was it truly so hot? The heat did strange things to humans, he knew— slight differences of degrees in either direction, and it rendered their complex systems functionally useless. He’s more familiar with the effects of cold than this dense heat, but… he remembered it well. Dean was already causing him concern, but Sam isn’t behaving any more normally, and not being able to pinpoint it is going to drive him mad.

And it was certainly warm. At this point, it was almost bothering Castiel himself. Steam coils and licks, rising sleepily up the steps around them, and he watches how it curls around his lowered forearm, studies how it embraces Dean and Sam’s reclining figures.

A phone rings; Dean barely jumps. The fog spills around him messily as he groans in protest and fishes his phone out from his pocket.

“Yeah?” Dean growls. He sounds worn through, and Castiel feels an instant twinge of sympathy despite his annoyance.

“You’re gonna have to speak up— who is this?” Dean repeats. 

Another pause, and Dean shrugs. He hangs up succinctly and doesn’t bother putting his cell away, letting it fall from his lax fingers to clatter that last inch to the floor.

“...Wrong number?” Sam asks, raising a brow. Dean shrugs. The phone rings again. Dean swears as he jabs at it, swiping off the volume and flipping it face down with a perturbed scowl.

It was clear they were going to continue to be unhelpful. Castiel could start the research on his own, and if Sam cared to join him later, then all the better. It isn’t as if they could come to harm simply resting… And in the larger barometer of things, if Dean weren’t worrying after Sam as he tended to at the slightest pindrop, could there really be anything to worry about?

He gives one lingering look of concern to Dean and Sam, and hesitates.

“You both should…” He casts about for something useful, “...drink water.” Yes, that’d suffice. It’d have to.

The haze follows him as he leaves, curling around his coattails.

….

Castiel heads down the halls with purpose, skirting over the puddles that are beginning to form on the floors. The archives often had the answers they needed. He can fix this. Hopefully, the water in the air wasn’t harming the more fragile records.

The halls he passes are all beige and brick-like tile; he walks down one, and then another, and another still, and it begins to dawn on him that they all look... exactly the same. Of course, they’d always been like that— the bunker had been built to precise and uniform specificity.  
The problem, Castiel realizes, lies with him. 

He isn’t quite sure where he is.

No, that wasn’t quite accurate. He stands at a crossroads of two halls. He recognizes them. He’s been here before, many, many times. The open door to his left is has been declared a game room, where Dean has placed a old green-felted pool table. To his right, the storage archive. The library isn’t far from here. He knows this.

But, nonetheless, he doesn’t know which direction to go.

Castiel's true form is broader than all of this; his wings could encircle the entirety of the bunker with ease. 'Lost' is an unforeseeable concept, and yet. And yet.

Still, inaction has never sat right with him. So he chooses a direction that feels as correct as any other and starts walking, confidently enough, until he realizes it’s a stairwell up. The library is not up. But it allows Castiel re-orient himself, because there’s only one thing upstairs. He’s at the garage.

He steps into the sprawling room; he was hoping for less steam here, thinned and spread out. Maybe if it were easier to see, he could find his way. As if it were his eyes that were truly the problem. 

But the garage is somehow worse than the halls, thick clouds swirling up around Castiel’s midsection as he wades through nothing. The cars sit motionless in the fog, rows of them, silent glinting curves, metallic islands dotted in a sea of atmosphere. His steps echo wetly as he walks.

The fog is billowing up from the crack in the floor, a gray pillar Castiel can see rising even from across the room. Curious, he strides toward it, the clouds curling against him like a physical caress, damp fingers on his skin, brushing his hair back. It makes his skin prickle, though it isn’t cold. It tugs at his clothes. It tugs at his _wings._

He stops with a full-body shiver, his wings arching in reaction. He can feel them, heavy with moisture, dripping. It’s a sensation he’s never felt before. His wings are metaphysical in nature, strokes of mathematical precision and celestial wavelengths— and they should not be wet. 

A single oil-black feather falls to the floor and he stares at it, watches as it flows with the eddies and swirls of the moving current, and disappears into the deep gray of the seam at his feet. 

It’s deeper than he remembers, and much, much larger, with hairline cracks all around that he can sense will grow larger still, long spindling spider threads bleeding out into the concrete. 

Castiel kneels down before it, and peers into the dark.

He can feel his wings growing heavier with the steam bearing down on him. He’s unused to feeling the weight of the feathers beyond a faint, ever present sense of being; they’re unsettlingly material, bowing under their own weight to drape over him like a dark canopy as he leans over the vent.

The steam rises, clings to his lashes, running down the bridge of his nose only to drip back down into the darkness, like it’s drawing him into this strange, humid ecosystem of heat. He can’t see to the bottom, dark beyond the soft curls of wet air. He can only see the stratified layers of cracked cement, of stone, and dense, living earth below— 

And something else, in the dim. 

Faint speckles, in pale pink and white. Some sort of greenery, softening the edges of earth. He frowns and dips a hand into the vent. His fingers brush something soft and damp, and he withdraws a cluster of blossoms on a deep green stem.

Oleander.

He brings the blossom to his nose and inhales. The scent of it is strong, baked syrup-sweet, the flower half-wilted from the steam. The floral scent mingles nicely, familiarly, with the alien scent that taunts at him so— they were often intertwined. 

That finally sparks it, the vague sense memory he’s been chasing since the earth trembled. The steam has a scent, because the water has a scent.

He knows now what waters are burning, below their bunker.

The oleander is everywhere, dripping over the crevices, growing upwards in search of an unreachable sun. It’s been centuries since he’d come across a well like this. And to find one in Lebanon, Kansas— well. It wasn’t so illogical; he’d seen the wooden signs all around, Lebanon touting itself as the center of the country, and there is a certain and specific energy that gathers in those places. And here, in the middle of everything— 

He lets the blossom drip from his fingers and fall back into the hole. A single black feather falls with it and he watches them flutter into the darkness, together.

He should tell someone. The Winchesters’ concerning behavior made a little more sense now, after all.

But he doesn’t move, not yet. 

His wings are so heavy.

He idly watches his feathers drip into the hole, by the dozens now, disappearing into darkness that swalllows them with a distinct hunger, like there’s something at the bottom collecting them with open maw. Castiel cocks his head and listens, watches, clings to every and any other sense beside scent. _Scent_ is overwhelming.

But he doesn’t sense anything. Just the waters, burning raw and unrefined.

He reaches both hands into the crevice and collects an armful of oleander. It should be easy enough to come up with a plan, now that they knew what they were up against.

He stands, and the oleander takes dirt and roots with them, scattering on the floor and turning to mud beneath his shoes. He gathers the sharp edged leaves and soft blossoms to his chest. 

His wings ache, burning softly down his back and up the slope of his shoulders.

He takes a steps back, and turns.

But he does not remember where the exit is. The room is gray, heavy and solid around him.

He wanders through the garage with arms full, intent of bringing it back to the library- or to Sam, or to Dean, to somewhere ‘important’ that would shake their dull, drowsing lethargy, but he doesn’t know what direction the stairwell is. Only fog, and those islands of flat metal tops, as if he were adrift and rudderless at open sea.

He looks aside to see his wings breaking down, feathers dripping in clumps and fuzzy chaff from his back to scatter across the cement, swallowed up instantly by the fog. Pink blossoms intertwined on their way down with them to scatter and float softly, Castiel’s grip loose on the bundle he held.

It’s as if he’s molting, he realizes, his wings soft and fragile, skeletal. _Plucked clean and frail, a new canvas after shedding the old_ , but he dismisses the thought. Still, with every feather lost, he feels a little lighter.

This shedding leaves a soft black trail behind his footsteps, however, and with such an obvious trail marker, there’s no way he’ll mistake where he’s been. He doesn’t have to worry about staying lost. He see the stairwell in the near distance eventually, and heads towards it.

That’s when he hears it. Familiar chords, slipping through the dense haze. A song, one he’s heard before— and he doesn’t know what the song is, but he knows the sense memory it draws: gleaming black paint, barely perceptible freckles, green eyes and an open road bleached noon-bright.

He sees a curl in the haze like a thunderhead preaching a coming storm, and follows it to a fan that’s currently pointed at Dean Winchester’s unusually bare feet, swinging lazily in the low-slung haze — but how? He’d left Dean back at the stone only minutes before, hadn’t he? 

How long has he been wandering this desert?

He comes closer, approaching the other side of the Impala. All the car’s doors are open, splayed out like stout geometric wings, and as he draws close he can hear the unpracticed timbre of Dean’s voice under the radio. It’s loud enough that he knows Dean isn’t aware of his presence, so he takes care to approach with a firmer step than usual.

He doesn’t seem to notice, not until Castiel is at the side door. Dean cranes his head back to pause and look at him mid-word, open mouth curving into a tilting grin after a moment.

He looks… light. Unburdened, a look Castiel has never reconciled with him, and it took years off him as easy as his favorite pie or a real smile from Sam.

“Cas,” he says, warm like a benediction, eyes flicking over the bundle of leaves and petals the angel held.

“For me? Aw, you shouldn’t’ve.”

“I haven’t,” Castiel agrees, crouching down if only to stop hovering. Dean twists to follow his motion, turning onto his side and propping his head up to watch him.

“...Well? Why all the weeds?” His mouth purses, and he twists slightly further to study Castiel— “These from outside?”

Castiel shakes his head. “The stone is… unmoved.” He tilts his head at him. “No, these- I found them in the seam.”

Dean frowns, “You found them in a hole in the dirt? So…” He settles back onto his back, crossing his arms loosely over his chest and closing his eyes. “Definitely weeds, then.”

“Oleander. Freshly bloomed. I know what the scent has been, now.”

“The scent?— Ah. Right.”

“It all makes so much more sense, now. This bunker, it was placed here at the center of your United States for a reason. There are several naturally metaphysical places on this earth, and there’s no reason your country hasn’t nurtured its own _pneuma._ ”

Dean is scrunching his nose at him, brow knitted together. Castiel catches his expression and sighs, “A new well. We’re standing right on top of it, Dean. The oleander waters — oracular waters— they’re burning, all around us. Underneath. I don’t know how I missed it, before—”

“Hold up— ‘oracular’? You mean—”

“The Grecian oracles. They breathe in the steam of the well, and would create altars, craft their own concoctions of herbs and flora, to help ease the way and channel their predictions. Oleander was a key component to their mixtures.”

“Like... Delphi? 300-style hot virginal types with all the... the twisting and the see-through robes and all the future gibberish?”

“That’s not… entirely accurate, but yes.”

“And you’re smelling this stuff... Now? So you’re saying that we’re ‘breathing in’ all these future fumes. And those oracles, wouldn’t they, y’ know, get super high? Wait, are we—” Dean tilts his head back to look at him, brows drawing, “Are we _high_?”

“It would explain your odd behavior. Sam’s, as well.”

“Are _you_ high?”

Castiel almost scoffs.

“I doubt it affects angels.”

Castiel finds he’s been slowly and meticulously laying out the flowers and long leaves, one by one, a vibrant silhouette on worn leather that wreathes Dean’s pillowed head— and as soon as he realizes, he stops. Dean does not.

“...think Sam and me might, y’know, lack some of the job requirements— I mean, sure, I’m alright on the eyes, but the whole ‘virginal’ thing, we mighta missed the train there— maybe you can take up the mantle, huh, Steve? You fit the bill a helluva lot better-” he paused for a beat, lips pursing, “--heavenuva lot better? Eh, that doesn’t work-”

“....While I am aware that you don’t believe everything you see on television, Dean, at times I have doubt.” 

“You kiddin’ Cas? That movie was basically the goddamn History Channel— Oh! Hey, can I tell the future now? How do I tell when that great little grease diner in town is gonna open up again because I tell ya, I let Sam do the grocery runs too many times in a row and personally, I need some honest to god triple bypass style chili fries-”

“You can’t predict the future. Not right now.” Cas wrinkles his nose. “There are some very distinct steps you need to go through for the spell, I’m sure. This is still in its raw state. Natural. You’re just in the right… mindset.”

“High as hell.”

“Yes, that is a succinct way to put it. Anyway, we’ll need to put out the burning waters below us before you’ll return to normal. And I can’t imagine this extended meditative state is all that good for you and Sam.”

Dean pauses. 

“...It’s not so terrible, is it?”

“Dean, _none_ of this concerns you?”

“Well— I mean, yeah, of course, but come on. What’s there to do?”

Castiel’s brow knit. “Are you purposefully being obtuse? You saw the stone—” 

“I also saw that there’s not much to do about it. So why rake up a fuss where there ain’t one? It’s not like staying put is gonna kill anybody, right? What the hell’s better out there? It’s all just angels and monsters and petty gods who couldn’t be assed to find a family counselor rather’n rip up the whole damn world.” Something in the line of his mouth twists bitterly before smoothing. “Not like we’re gonna go all Cloverfield Lane if we all stay inside and enjoy not dealing with… all that, because for whatever goddamn creepy, messed-up reason it’s gonna inevitably be— it’s quiet here, Cas. Stone quiet. Not a damn case for _miles_.”

Dean lets his head fall back with a soft thunk, “And I gotta be honest with you, Cas, I’m… kinda enjoying the breather.” He huffs a little, “Figures it’d be some funky Harold and Kumar kinda thing, though. I haven’t felt this _light_ in… I don’t know. Huh. Really could go for some White Castle, though.”

“That’s _if_ it’s not harming you, Dean. You and Sam, you’re not acting like yourselves. It worries me.”

“You don’t seem all that worried.”

Castiel frowns, “Of course I do.”

“Yeah, sure— wait, your dirt weed or whatever, oleander… Oleander… Isn’t that stuff poisonous?”

“It should be. Oleander is highly toxic to humans; by all rights, Sam and you should both be incapacitated or dead already. But there’s something... mitigating it, somehow. Neutralizing the toxicity. Perhaps another herb...”

“Huh. So we agree then, there’s no real rush.”

“Entirely the opposite, Dean.” Castiel straightens, “You’re clearly not in your right mind—”

Dean seems to take offense at that, “Hey! What, c’mon, just because I’m okay with life for five minutes—”

“Well, partially, yes. But partially because there is an impossibly unbreakable enchanted stone barring the only entry or exit, and neither you nor Sam seem to care, which leaves this to me.” His expression, firmed, softens slightly for a moment, and he reaches out to place a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“...Don’t worry, Dean. I’m going to fix this. Take rest.”

He was going to let go, but Dean’s hand clasped over his, fingers around his wrist, expression irritated.

“Cas, leave it alone already. You tried for hours, come on, you— here.” He gave a tug, and Castiel found himself sitting perched on the edge of the front bench. “Stay, alright? Do whatever it is you gotta do, but just… stay here, for a little while first. You gotta relax about all this, man. I mean, what’s the harm in a little agora-whatever now and then?” His tone is charmingly cajoling, but it’s the thread of actual want underneath that keeps Castiel’s feet in place. Dean alights onto this fact immediately. 

“Just a little while. Here— siddown. It’s just getting to the good stuff,” Dean says as he turns the cassette tape over. It slides in with a soft plastic _shhhick_ , a crackling whir in the speakers before Dean turns it up.

There’s not much room in the front seat where Dean sprawls, nor does the man seem inclined to sprawl any less, and Castiel finds himself laying crosswise in the backseat. His feet hang awkwardly out the side door.

Dean’s hand is slung over the bench, fingers draping over lovingly worn leather. He rubs a seam absently with his thumb, singing under his breath with the music- Castiel can just barely hear him. Songs drift by, lemons and blues, rambling on. Dean speaks up occasionally, just talking to talk, years and albums and dates and “stories, man, they’re all these stories”- and when his fingers brush up against Castiel’s on the same bench seat, it’s warm and exploratory and entirely without thought— overthought, more like. It’s honest, the way his fingertips scrape slowly over Castiel’s bare knuckles— and something more, the way his palm presses on top of his hand and presses down, rolling it against the leather almost curiously slow.

It makes Castiel’s stomach coil tight.

“Cas?” He hears him murmur, and when Castiel opens his eyes Dean is sitting up in the front seat, an arm slung over the back. No longer haloed in oleander, a twig is caught in his short-cropped hair; pale petals grace his shoulders. One is caught, right at the bolt of his jaw. Castiel draws himself up after a moment, lifting a hand, and his fingers rasp over soft stubble as he brushes the petal free.

Brushing it even that much lefts a faint, earthen scent to the air, tart and sweet all at once, but the chugging fan blusters it away. The humid breeze ruffles his hair, catching at his collar, sweeping across the back of his bare neck. He has no idea how long it’s been; he remembers the soft click of the tape deck, but was that from before…? He worries at the thought, nagging at it, but the realization that he’s being watched distracts him almost as much as the hand over his.

“Hey, Woodstock, you okay in there?” Dean’s saying, and it’s like it’s through water before the bubble breaks. A hand is on his cheek lightly, tapping with a forefinger lightly against his cheekbone, “Earth to Cas, come in spacecase-”

“I am present.” Castiel says, low. Dean’s hand doesn’t draw back, and Castiel looks up. Dean’s eyes are on him, watching the soft press of his own fingertips against skin. His thumb barely touches Castiel’s mouth, and Castiel’s skin prickles head to toe in a rolling rush and— 

And Castiel realizes, with a sudden drop of his stomach, he is _far_ from not affected by whatever is happening to them. To all of them.

He stands, pulling himself out of the car and leaving Dean’s hand hanging midair before the man sets it down.

Castiel’s mouth is unnaturally, uncomfortably dry.

“I’m going to fix this,” Castiel repeats, stumbling as he turned toward the stairs. He has to fix this— before his own senses betray him.


	5. pelanos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **It knows this place, now. The seals sang open, sprang sober, and now she goes as she pleases; can stretch herself out; can almost imagine her feet on the floor (but never out). And these faces aren’t familiar, but these faces, they’re all the same.**
> 
> **She doesn’t need to know anything else to know that.**
> 
> **Now, for answers.  
> **   
> 

The ringing is going to drive Dean crazy.

It’s incessant. Random, persistent, like someone's calling over and over and over - he's tried to find the source, but it's like it comes from nowhere. Even when he hears it, it's like a tinny, nagging echo instead of a full-fledged sound.

He’s been trudging around puddles in the bunker for almost an hour, listening for it to start again, any clue as to where it’s actually coming from; he’s notched off all the possibilities, every phone and alarm- he’d even checked the carbon monoxide plugin one that someone (Sam) had put down in the garage. 

By now, he’s just drifting, and without the sound, it’s almost hard not to let his mind wander.

Since Castiel had taken off, Dean’s had nothing but time to replay _that_ moment in his head. He’s already told himself he’s done thinking about it, and usually that’s a pretty reliable trick of his— but still, Cas’ cheek is stubbled and warm under his hand, and his mouth under the pad of his thumb… Well, it has some unanticipated staying power.

Almost as much as Cas’ expression, right before he ran away.

Dean thought he knew all Cas’ expressions; many are similar, sure, but there’s the little quirks and tweaks that give him away. Not that he can _always_ read the angel- but to be real, it was a safe enough bet. Right now, though, Dean’s got no idea what’s going through the angel’s head.

And if that isn't enough, the strange loop of half-dreams whenever he shuts his eyes would do it. They weren't nightmares, he's pretty sure- and if anybody's qualified to know a nightmare when they have one, it's kinda him.

It’s all odd flashes of... moments. Moments he doesn't remember living- and ones he can't possibly have. There’s one that really keeps him up at night, though, the one the images always end and start their loop on...

He shakes his head, shaking off the image that he knew, somehow, wasn't a nightmare. All it is is darkness, anyway- surrounded by water that fades into blackness, empty dark water that never ends no matter how hard he swims. Lungs constantly filling with water, straining for air, but never giving out.

But none of that, at least, pesters his otherwise relaxed waking hours. 

Aside from the ringing, anyway.

...Okay, so maybe more than just the ringing is driving him crazy. 

Still, besides all that, he can't remember the last time he felt more _relaxed_. The faint concern just keeps orbiting around him, bumping up close every once in a while only to play ding-dong-ditch.

He’s taken a few more loops around the bunker, stepping over puddles and wading through haze to his ankles, and every time his mind drifts, that goddamn concern itching at his hindbrain drags him back.

God, if he can’t even enjoy being a little toasted, then sobering up it is, and the best way he knows how: coffee. Coffee, the mystical sober-up juice of the ages, seconded only by an ice-cold dunk he had no way of engineering.

It's when he heads into the kitchen, though, that he's greeted by an odd sight; Sam, standing at the counter, flour up to his elbows. He’s rolling dough out on the counter, and Dean stops short at the pure, foreign air of it all. Sam gives him a little shrug.

“I was bored. Thought I’d surprise you.”

"With- baking??" Dean’s pretty sure Sam’s never baked in his goddamn life. Come to think of it, he isn’t sure he has, either- “Why?”

“‘Why’?” Sam repeats, “I mean, why _not_? We’re kinda stuck here. You like pie.”

“The _world_ likes pie, Sam.”

“-’the world likes pie’, sure, so why not try something new? Hey, come over here and help.”

Dean considers him, head tilted, and then abruptly acquiesces. Mockingly, because if _Sam_ is making a pie it's probably going to be full of ground up _zucchini_ or whatever had been in those godforsaken 'brownies' and Dean has a moral duty to protect it from that hideous fate. But mostly, because he hasn’t had homebaked pie in months and months and even then it was just picked from a glass case and nuked, but at least out of sight so he could _pretend_ that curl of steam was fresh from an oven in a familiar kitchen-

He starts up the coffeemaker first, anyway, and then comes to Sam’s side.

“Well, alright. Show me your kitchen magic, Sammy Crocker.”

Sam makes a face at him, but it’s warm and familiar and he doesn’t stop, handing Dean a bowl and some butter, and Dean grins.

The coffee starts to percolate, but Dean hardly notices. There’s something about baking that lends itself to the strange state he’s floating in; cutting butter into the dough, dusting a bowl of petals Sam had handed him with nutmeg-

_(“What the hell kinda pie- this isn’t some kinda fucking salad pie atrocity, is it? Where’s the apples? Pumpkin? Seriously, I'd take banana at this point and you know how I feel about-”_

_“-It’ll be good! It’ll be good, jeez, I promise. Remember that pickle pie from Utah? The one you bitched about the whole way there, then devoured? Shut up, trust me, and throw some of that sugar in-”_ )

-and begrudgingly or not, Dean’s drifting way too comfortably to argue. He mixes them into the filling by hand. The petals bruise delicately against his fingers, spilling a familiar scent Dean can’t quite place, and by the time it’s through Sam’s next to him with a dough-lined pie tin.

Once it’s filled, Sam lays the dough out over it like a lumpy blanket, and then it’s in the oven.

Just waiting around the kitchen, washing dishes and messing around— is somehow the nicest moment Dean’s had in… a long time, really. He drinks his lukewarm coffee, he chats with his brother, and despite everything, all is somehow right with the world. And when the oven starts to smell _really_ good, Dean sits on his haunches in front of it like it's magnetized, spacing out contentedly as he studies the way the dough crisps and slowly turns golden.

Fresh out of the oven, the pie looks amazing. Perfectly toasted at the edges, steam rising from the middle... It crackles delicately when Sam cuts into it to get them each a slice.

At the table, that first bite is everything Dean hoped it would be— flaky, lush, and fragrant. It’s tart and unfamiliar on his tongue, and it’s like every bite takes his head higher in the best way possible. He hums contentedly, sharing a warm grin with Sam, but the moment- it’s missing something.

He furrows his brow, gnawing on his lip.

Someone.

“... You seen Cas, Sam? I’m gonna find him, he’s gotta try this.”

Sam raises a brow, “Really? Mr. My-PB&J-Tastes-Like-Molecules? C’mon, he can’t taste it. But if you’re bent on sharing- I mean, I saw him go by my room a while ago.” He punctuates it with a shrug.

“Oh! Hey, did he tell you he figured it out?”

Sam’s familiar grin dims. “Figured out what?”

“All this! The weirdo fog, the smell he keeps chasing after-”

“How?”

Dean feels his cheeks color unbidden, and he shoves another bite in his mouth, brushing it off, and barely bothers to finish chewing before barrelling on, “ _‘How’_ ain’t important. What _matters_ is we got something to go on.” He swallows, pointing his fork at Sam in emphasis.

He fills Sam in with what little he’s got, though he leaves out Cas’ mouth or the broad fingers twined through his and… Really, he pretty much just leaves the car out of it, a neat little omission he doesn’t give a second thought to. Habit.

There’s something anxious about Sam’s expression- or maybe it’s just the lean of his shoulders as he listens close to Dean. Either way, Dean tunes in, trying to decipher him. In the meantime, he keeps going.

“...So anyway, we’re Lucy in the sky with diamonds for now, though I figure what the hell, huh? And our resident angel doesn’t approve, but when’s the last time _you_ got eight hour’s sleep twice in a row? This is good for us! Nothing says we can’t just drag our feet this one time.”

Sam _still_ isn't replying, something pensive on his face, and Dean tilts his head.

“What, no opinion on all this?” He raises a brow, a little sarcastic, a little prodding, and frowns because Sam’s got his thoughtful face on. Dean waits like he’s supposed to, and finally Sam sighs.

“...I’d been trying to figure out what it could be on my own. Researching the Archives and all that, and I think Cas is probably right. It makes sense. But you know what? If it’s oracular waters, there’s nothing to say we can’t use them to our advantage.”

“Whaddya mean?” Dean says around another mouthful of pie.

“This whole mixture in the air- it was all about bringing an oracle into the right place, on the right wavelength, right? So they could ask their questions and understand the answers… So what says we can’t use it, too? Do the same thing. Get some answers about how to get out of here.”

“ _Us_? Look, I was on board for a minute there, but neither of us are exactly oracles.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Sam, maybe because we’re not from a thousand years ago or Greek or even all that suited for filmy robes?”

Sam’s watching him, brows raised a little, and Dean gives up with a shrug.

“...But sure. Why the hell not, huh? Maybe it’ll at least make Cas happy- then he can cool his jets and relax.”

Dean finishes off his slice, and reaches for another. Sam nods once. “Okay. Okay, there’s a few more things we need, but I think we’ve got them all. I’ll gather them up. Stay here.”

It sounds like an order, and Dean almost bristles at that. From _Sam_.

“Stay here? M’ not a kid.”

“No, but you’re obviously riding high off all the funtime fumes.”

Dean doesn’t exactly have a comeback for that, it was true- “So are you!”

Sam nods at that, gives an easy shrug, “So hang tight, and enjoy your pie. I’ll be right back.”

Sam disappears down the hall, and Dean’s left alone with thoughts that keep trying to drift back to Cas, but the pie is good and he focuses on that. Every bite makes it a little easier...

At least, until he hears that faint fucking ringing again.

As he focuses on it, it cuts through the haze more and more, until he just can’t ignore it away. He looks at his half-eaten slice, sets down his fork mournfully, and gets up. “Don’t worry, baby. I won’t leave ya hanging,” he promises, and sets off to follow the stupid, shitty noise before it drives him mad.

It only gets louder, echoing like a thousand tinny cicadas as he winds through the halls, and this time he ends up at their de facto phone center.

The wall of phones is set up in a haphazard order, labeled much like Bobby’s had been. The handwritten labels are taped onto the handles; CDA, FBI, MIB (that one’s actually just broken. It’d been ‘Federal Agricultural Bureau’ or some shit before, and instead of trashing it Dean just relabeled it and waited for Sam to notice.)

The thing is, they’re all silent.

Something keeps ringing.

Dean rubs the warm ache of his temples, stepping through a shallow puddle that spanned the center of the room. His feet are bare, the water warm on his toes.

Nothing continues to ring, and the sound fills his ears like buzzing.

Scowling, Dean starts to go through the phones, grabbing them one by one and listening to each with narrowed eyes. Still, _still_ , nothing but buzzing static fray, dial tones echoing like caves dripping. He even picks up the stupid joke phone, as if it’d be anything more than dead quiet.

With a snarl, he throws it to the ground. It crashes, skipping on the puddle and sending ripples swaying around his feet.

The room goes silent.

Real silence, thin and clear.

Dean stiffens, the hair on his arms standing right up as he turns slowly. The puddle sloshes softly around his feet. The soft, welcoming haze hides the corners of the room, and he squints against the dim, still as he is silent. Nothing shows itself. His entire frame is tense, wire-taut. And as soon as he turns, the ringing again slices through the air, but this time like every phone in the world is going off. It’s deafening.

Behind him, the call wall is going mad. A tattered box of cell phones is threatening to rattle right off the table, strays clattering against the desktop, filling his ears til he’s drowning in it-

-and then he realizes in the chaos that only one of the landlines was blinking green.

He lets go of his ears, grabbing at it so hard he knocks the receiver loose. He catches it, sure, but just barely. The ringing is all background noise now, fading to a hum, his world zeroing down to the phone he clutches against his ear. Dead quiet.

He waits for the dial tone, but it never comes.

“What the friggin’ hell is this, huh?” He finally snarls at the stupid, no doubt dead phone. The light blinks steadily at him. Taunting.

“Whatever this is, all this goddamn phone business is gonna end or I’ll end it my own damn self and it ain’t gonna be any kind of pretty-”

_“-Dean?”_ It’s faint, so faint he can hardly make it out, but Dean would know his brother’s voice half-dead and drowning.

“...Sam?” He said, grip tightening.

“Dean?”

And Dean nearly jumps out of his own damn skin, whirling around because that familiar voice isn’t on the phone, it’s— 

Sam. Sam, behind him, jeans soaking up warm water at the edge of their shallow lake. His hands are full, bowls and jars and little things.

_...Of course it wasn’t the fucking phone._ Dean lets out a shallow huff, letting the phone set fall back down to his side.

“Jesus, Sam, you can’t just sneak up on a guy—”

“-- who were you talking to, Dean?”

Sam asks his question carefully— and great, he’s using his practiced harmless concerned tone, like he has the kid gloves ready to go in case big brother finally has that last meltdown and-

Dean frowns, blinking as he realizes that it’s quiet again. Not silent like the air’s gone dead, but quiet like normal.

Quiet like home.

Thank frigging god.

Still, that doesn’t make explaining that he's going crazy any easier.

The old plastic handle of the phone creaks in his hand. It’s got a hairline crack winding down the back, flexing and shifting in time with his grip. When he finally relaxes and sets it back down on the desk, the crack nearly disappears.

Sam's still waiting for him to answer.

At an utter loss, Dean ends up going with honesty.

“...Sam, I think something’s wrong with me.”

His voice cracks, he hears it, but it’s fucking true, isn’t it?

“I been— I can’t sleep. When I close my eyes it’s all these , weird, horrible—” All he is for a moment is the water filling his throat- “-like tying a sheet around Cas’ knees to burn him, _burn him_ Sammy, this rack of books with my name and no way out, and this _kid_ that stares at me but he doesn’t say a word and his eyes are burning all gold and— I can’t take it, Sam, everything’s so calm here but I can’t close my eyes--"

"Dean, that's okay-"

"And you, you’re there too, just you got all this—” Dean gestures a little manically at his chin, “all this _fuzz_ , you look like a fuckin’ nine-foot caveman who ain’t seen daylight in a year, so I guess the real takeaway is maybe remember that grooming is essential to the modern hunter Sam-” he almost giggles, burying his face in his hands and scraping them over his cheeks, “....fuuuck.”

Sam watches him patiently, and he moves forward, the water lapping at his heels. It's as dark as the shadows in the corners.

“Dean,” Sam repeats, soft as anything. “That’s okay. That’s good.”

“ _Good-_ ” Dean breaks off, almost with a hiccup, and he’s horrified to find the corners of his eyes all wet as he swipes at them, and to further his horror he starts hearing the ringing start again, almost gentle at the edge of his senses, “Are you fuckin’ gonzo, Sam? Since when is _seeing things_ a good thing? Hearin’ em, too! Do you seriously not hear all that goddamn _ringing_ -”

Sam meets his gaze, gently. “No, Dean.”

Dean stares at him, because by now the growing ringing is already gritting his teeth, scraping in his skull.

“No?”

“No.” Sam repeats, and the volume fades down into this ambient, background buzz.

And somehow, Dean believes him- he always believes Sam, even when he can’t. He licks his lips, thumbs rubbing his brow smooth.

“...Okay.” Dean breathes out slowly, and it takes, somehow. He can feel it under his skin, spreading like warm molasses.

“This is a good thing, Dean. I’ve seen things, too, okay? It’s _good_. It means everything’s settling in place.”

Sam steps closer. The water trembles around his feet, soft circles of disturbance gently rolling outwards to lap against Dean’s bare feet. “Dean, did we talk about telling the oracles, yet?”

And at Dean’s questioning look, Sam keeps going. “Doing the oracle ritual, you know? Reading the visions.”

And it’s like time skips a little, but it’s not concerning, somehow.

Dean’s sitting on his ass in the puddle, right across from Sam. Both of them are sitting crosslegged, knees bumping. There’s a bowl between them that bristles with long green leaves. The water laps warmly at Dean's thighs, soaked denim and flannel sticking to his skin as the water leaches into it.

Into him.

A lit match falls into the tangle of leaves, and smoke billows up in graceless little tangles around them.

“How’s it work?” Dean breathes after a moment, eyes on Sam’s. They’re immeasurably dark.

Sam smiles.

“We ask questions. The oracle—”

“--answers ‘em, yeah, yeah.” Dean licks dry lips, casting about. “I asked how, brainiac. Where’d you figure out all this?”

“The archives,” Sam answers easily, “The Men of Letters never failed to stick their noses in just about everything, remember?”

Dean blinks slowly, because usually Sam was all about that Men of Letters bullshit, but- “Can’t argue with that, I guess.”

“So who’s going under first?”

“Under? You mean-”

“One of us plays oracle, and the other asks the questions.”

The air is thick with it all. Dean can feel the furrows between his eyebrows loosening, back cracking as he shifts, and the warm wet feels pleasant on overheated skin, but he still hesitates.

“...Look, Sam, I’m not liking either option all that much. Maybe we should hold off, you know, wait for Cas-”

Sam frowns, “Cas wants us to figure this out, right? So we’re doing it. You need him to hold your hand or something?”

Dean scowls back at him reflexively, “Shut it, Sam-”

“Here, I’ll go first, alright? Just remember- you’re going next, so that’s your warning fair and square.” Sam reaches down, dipping his fingers in a smaller bowl of oil Dean hadn’t even noticed until then. Droplets roll down his brother's palm, the back of his hand, leaving glistening streaks down his skin. Sam smears it in a straight line down his own face, the bridge of his nose, his lips.

It looks ridiculous, and Dean almost snorts. Then Sam lifts the smoking bowl, breathing it in- and transforms, head falling back abruptly, lips parting. His eyes roll into his head. Dean’s pulse jumps.

“Ask.” Sam says, voice soft and low.

_“Sam—”_

“ _Ask._ ”

Dean purses his lips, trying to find that drifting calm again- it was never far out of reach, not lately. He can do this. Just get the answers- they’d fill Cas in later. And speaking of the angel… Cas had been so worked up about _something_ , but what had it been? The water, the oleander… Then, he remembers cool, soothing stone under his palm.

“...The stone. How do we…” He gestured for a moment, but it wasn’t like Sam was tracking that, “get rid of it or whatever? How do move it?”

Sam’s eyes are already closed, but Dean can see them moving underneath paper-thin lids as Sam breathes in slowly, then exhales soft steam. His lips drip with it. Dean can’t look away as they start to move like they’re shaping foreign syllables.

“Easily. The stone only weighs as much as you want it to.”

It’s like what Dean’s hearing isn’t quite lining up with what he’s saying, out of sync like an old Godzilla dub. Still, he swallows and pushes on.

“‘As much as I’- you’re sayin’ it’s... that doesn’t make sense, you mean if I went up to it ‘n gave it a shove, it’d just tip on over? Bullshit.”

“It’ll move when you want it to.”

“Well, I want it to-”

“There are no lies in the telling.” Sam cuts him off, sternly, like that’s just that.

Dean’s head is spinning a little, swimming, and it’s not unpleasant but he’s not in control of it all the way, and he opens his mouth again to retort but Sam is waiting, blinking his eyes open slowly. Sam’s pupils are wide and dark, swallowing up sunflower flecks of gold.

Dean scowls, “Well, how about all this then?” He flicks a splash of water at Sam from the puddle.

Sam waits, unmoving, like some kind of living stasis.

“...What’s up with all the water, then?” Dean rephrases after a moment, trying again.

“The waters have always been here. The Men of Letters found it later. Now, it’s a part of… everything. It runs in the walls, in the wires, the manmade leylines and wards. All of it.”

How would Sam even know that? Maybe it was working, this whole crazy thing, and- “...They had oracles too, then? The Men of Letters?”

“Yes.”

“Ho-ly shit. So when’s the last time- is this all connected somehow-?”

-and Sam blinks and lifts his head, waving at the thick smoke between them with a hand and coughing.

“Well, that was— unpleasant,” Sam manages, a little raspy around the edges.

After Sam doesn’t seem like he's in actual distress, Dean lifts his hands, “Hey, hey, I wasn’t done- I was on a good track, there.” But mostly, he’s just relieved. That is, until Sam holds out the bowl of oil.

He starts to waffle, then steels himself.

“Okay. Okay, I’m… Let’s do this. It’s like in your AMA’s, huh Sammy?” He laughs, and Sam looks at him questioningly, “C’mon, ‘I’m a hunter playin’ oracle in the basement of a midwest bunker, high off his ass, Ask Me Anything’. Imagine how that’d play out,” Dean laughs sorta nervously, and Sam laughs after a minute too, echoing him, and Dean lets him humor him even if Sam’s the giant nerd that goes off about internet forums.

After a moment of hedging, Dean dips his fingers into the oil. They drip. His finger slips slick down his face, leaving thin, wet strips. It feels ridiculous and a little gross- but it also feels like readying for war, like whatever the feeling of flowers opening to the sun is.

Sam lifts up the bowl of leaves, still smoldering smoke, and Dean breathes in.

Nothing happens. Dean blinks smoke-stung eyes, and then leans in closer. He breathes in again, deeper this time. The world wavers around him and he immediately closes his eyes, waiting in anticipation until Sam speaks.

“...How long ago was the last Oracle?”

And after a minute of nothing, Dean just blinks at him. Sam watches him

He lifts a hand to Dean’s chin. He nudges it back, and for some reason, Dean lets him.

“Close your eyes again, and let the answers well up.”

Dean does as told and finds himself actually trying, waiting for Sam to ask again.

“...How long has it been, since the last Oracle?”

Dean frowns, waiting, but he keeps his eyes closed. Still, nothing seems to be coming up. Just a nagging little feeling, deep in his belly. The hell was _he_ supposed to know-

“Don’t think about it, Dean. Don’t think. It’s not _your_ answer. You’re just the conduit.” Sam’s murmur fills his head, and Dean tries to let it, biting his lip before just... letting go.

It seems like just moments later when they’re coaxing another flare of heat from the simmering bowl. Dean's lashes flutter, and he pinches his brow, and he leans back a little.

And then- 

-It feels like nothing. He can still hear Sam, sure, but it’s like he’s underwater, drifting in and out of range, nothing but warm vibrations rolling over his skin.

“...Tell me about the angel,” Sam says quietly.

Why would Sam bother asking about Cas? They were _supposed_ to try and figure this out. Dean tries to think, scraping for a foothold, but Sam’s falling away and the floor is falling away and the walls peel off in slow motion. The world blooms, kaleidoscoping out of focus.

And goes dark.

 

* * *

 

Castiel steps into the kitchen, following the warm scent of dough. The counter is clean, dishes dripping dry, but neither Sam nor Dean are present.

Two plates are set out at the table, left as they were, half eaten slices of pie still speared by forks- the two must not be far, then.

Perhaps they’ve gone to find him- despite his own particular lacking in taste, Dean tended to seek him out when he made something new, and he did have a fearsome proclivity for pies. All it does for Castiel, though, was make him wish more that he can enjoy it, actually physically enjoy it; not dissect it atom by atom and deduce a probable outcome in flavor to verify with the faces of those eating around him, but to _taste_ it on the flat on his tongue, to let it sit, languid and bursting and warm.

He's curious, however- while he’s been introduced to many pies over his time with the Winchesters- with Dean- he doesn’t recognize this one at all. It's oddly formed, dough an afterthought, vibrant magenta and pastel pink pulped up inside as he leans down to study it.

Yet, it feels familiar… He prods it with a discarded fork and it gives way like dry dust, crackling apart. He expects juice to spill out of it, to stick to the fork and make a mess of the tin, but nothing.

He digs deeper, brow furrowing, excavating now. All he finds is more and more soft, wrinkled petals, bruised and shriveled with heat. He picks one out, lifting it into the dim light.

As he watches, it crumbles apart, leaving behind nothing but a powdery dust and the smell of burnt oleander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so hey, we're back! new goal: finishing this beastie before fifteen airs. (backup goal, lbr: finishing this beastie before it's all over)
> 
> That being said, having started this mess way back before knowing it would end so soon... I've always wanted to write an SPN fic for this fandom, having been in it so so very long (since s3... cries...), so this is me giving back to all the wonderful works other fanartists have dreamt up over the years. Can't not pay my own tithe, right? So here goes nothing.  
> ~hanzie
> 
>  
> 
> _(...and yes, We Need To Talk About Sam. boy howdy.)_


End file.
